Privy chamber. What exactly is a privy chamber?
Arsinoe watches, carried easily along inside Daphne’s body as they make their way to the chamber. She studies the woman they bow to (must be Henry’s lady mother) as well as the relative plainness of the room. The woman is obviously high-born, dressed in a fine gown in cloth of silver, but the rug beneath their feet is thinner than Arsinoe is used to and the stone walls, very rough.
“Mother, what is it? You look positively gleeful!”
“And I am,” she says as Henry bends to kiss her hand.
“It is good news, then,” says Daphne. “That is a relief.”
“We have had a letter from the king. Henry is to go to the isle of Fennbirn. He is to be this generation’s suitor for the crown, the only one sent in all of Centra.”
“Fennbirn!” Fennbirn! Henry looks at Daphne excitedly.
He’s a suitor. But why am I dreaming of a suitor and his sister? She feels something in the way that Henry grasps on to Daphne’s hand. Or perhaps NOT a sister.
“But why me, Mother? Are you certain? Has there been no mistake?”
“We have no reason to think so,” his mother says. “The letter was signed by the king’s own hand and sealed with his seal. And we are always among his favorites at court. This is a boon to your father, in payment for past loyalties.”
Kings. Centran courts. I don’t know anything about Centra. Mirabella ought to be dreaming this. She knows everything.
“When do I leave?” Henry asks.
“Soon,” says his mother. “Very soon. Our young ward Richard will accompany you to the isle and remain there during your suit, as an ally and protection.”
“What about Daphne?”
“Daphne will remain here.”
Henry and Daphne look at each other with wide eyes, and Arsinoe’s heart aches for them. It is the same way she looked at Jules when she and Camden sailed away.
“But Mother—”
“No.” His mother takes a breath, and her face brightens. “Now go and prepare for supper. Your lord father is sorry to miss tonight’s celebration, but he will return from court in a week’s time to see you off.”
They stand, and his mother kisses Henry on both of his cheeks. Daphne starts to leave with him, but his mother grasps her by the arm.
“I would keep you a moment, Daphne.”
Daphne and Arsinoe sink back into the chair, though Arsinoe’s eyes follow Henry as long as they can.
“You knew this day would come,” his mother says. “That someday, Henry would make a great marriage and increase our lands and our fortune.”
“Of course I did.”
And even though a stranger, Arsinoe can hear the strain in Daphne’s voice.
“But I thought he would remain here. That his bride would come, with her lands and titles, and she and Henry would live here.”
“And so she will if he is successful. He will return a king! With a queen, as soon as their reign on Fennbirn is over.”
Inside Daphne, Arsinoe sneers.
“And what am I to do, Lady Redville? Without Henry? Without Richard?”
“You will do what all women do. You will wait for the men to make their ways in the world.”
Ugh.
“Do not despair. You are a foundling, of no noble blood, so there can be no great marriage for you. But you will always have a place in my household as one of my ladies. And I am sure that Henry’s queen would have you as a lady as well.”
I suppose it’s better than being put out on the street. Which is where my sister and I would be without Billy.
Luckily, the uncomfortable conversation with Henry’s mother, Lady Redville, does not last long, and Daphne is able to carry Arsinoe out and back into the hall, where Henry promptly ambushes them.
“Well? Did you change her mind?”
“Me? Why don’t you? You’re her son! And you didn’t say a word.”
His hair is windblown, and though boys seemed older by that age in those old times, to Arsinoe he still looks very young. Too young to be a king-consort. And so unschooled in the ways of the island. She can imagine Billy standing so, talking to his sister, Jane, with a similar thoughtful expression.
“I didn’t know what to say,” says Henry. “She has never tried to separate us before.”
“It is a fool’s time to start. When you’re being sent so far away, under newly minted favor of the king. And the isle of Fennbirn . . . who knows a thing about it? They say it is full of witches and magic. . . .”
Watch your tongue, foundling. . . .
“You don’t believe that,” he says.
“But how would we know? Centra hasn’t had a winning suitor for generations. Why is the king sending you anyway? He has plenty of sons!”
“Fennbirn is a prize for nobles, Daph. You know that.”
“That clever look on your face. You want to be king, don’t you? You want to be the king of Fennbirn Island.”
“Daphne.” He laughs. “Who would not? It will be a great adventure. I wish you could come. But I will tell you everything when I return.”
They are quiet for a moment, and that look of separation comes back into Henry’s eyes.
He loves her. He loves her, but he’s going to go anyway.
“I don’t want you to go,” she says suddenly.
“You don’t? Daph—” he reaches out, and she turns quickly away. “Why do you not want me to go?”
“You know why!”
“Do I?”
Do you? Spit it out, then, Daphne. Arsinoe tries to prod, to quicken Daphne’s mind. But she is only a dreamer, and this is far, far in the past. Whatever happened, there is no changing it.
“You know that I can protect you just as well as Richard,” Daphne says, and Arsinoe groans.
“I should be going with you. Who will look out for you? Who will make sure that you’re safe?”
Henry’s hands draw back to his sides. “I wish you had said something else.”
“What else?”
“You think of me still as a child. How can you not see what I have become? That I am not some tottering little boy.”
“Henry—”
“Well, I am not a boy. I am a man. I will be a king, and I will be a lord. Your lord,” he adds, and Arsinoe likes him a little less.
“Daph. Forgive me. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“But that’s the way it is,” Daphne snaps. “Thank you, Lord Henry, for reminding me.”
He storms out, and she spins so fast that Arsinoe is near sick to her stomach. But when she stops, it is to face a mirror, and Arsinoe sees why she is dreaming in the body that she is.
Daphne’s hair and eyes are black as night. Even her natural hair, cropped short and barely peeking out from beneath the wig. Daphne may be a foundling, but she is a foundling queen of Fennbirn.
INDRID DOWN TEMPLE
Anxious butterflies tumble in Bree Westwood’s stomach as the carriage draws to a stop before Indrid Down Temple. The carriage door swings open, and she looks up, taking it all in: the grandeur of the facade, so fiercely black, with carved gargoyles snarling down. It is not as beautiful as the temple in Rolanth; it lacks the soft, artful touches, but she must admit it is imposing. Struck in the center of the capital like a great black sword into the earth.
“Do you need someone to go in with you, miss?” the driver asks. “Announce you?”
“No.” Bree steps out of the coach and rolls her shoulders back. “I am expected.”
Her legs kick out in long strides, the show of confidence easy after years of practice. But she hates the wobbly feeling in her knees and the butterflies still boiling in her belly. She hates that High Priestess Luca summoned her at all, but mostly, she hates that she felt compelled to show up.